


The Eyes of the Gods

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexuality, Dirty Talk, Drinking Games, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, New Year's Eve, New York City, POV Second Person, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, yes.  You’ve definitely had your fair share of public sex.  It goes beyond making love languorously on the beach at night beneath the stars, or frantic quickies in the dressing room of high-end menswear shops.  You and Draco make quite the deviant pair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Because acolorfulstabwound and I were being such horrible bosses, we felt like we owed the boys some happy smut. This is my contribution to that effort.
> 
> This place in the Metropolitan Museum really does exist, but don't get any ideas.
> 
> For that Draco with the Dior cufflinks.

It’s New Year’s Eve and you’ve gathered a small collection of your oldest friends at your flat in London. You can’t recall a year that had been so happy for all of you, and you are celebrating this fact with relish. It’s not a raucous party, but you are all a bit uninhibited and highly opinionated, thanks to the numerous bottles of alcohol that everyone had contributed. And because this gathering of Slytherin’s finest has you all rather nostalgic, you’re playing a drinking game – not that any of you need to be encouraged to imbibe with a silly game.

“I’ve never had sex in public,” announces Pansy without any hint of shame regarding this confession of a very intimate nature.

And that’s because, as Slytherin’s finest, none of you are above outing your friends’ most debauched secrets in a few rounds of I’ve Never with a bottle of Irish whiskey.

You think that Pansy has either forgotten the rules of the game, or is lying, because you remember things differently. You decide on the former rather than challenge her. “Pan, you’re supposed to say something you’ve never done before, and we’re supposed to drink if we’ve done it.”

She pierces you with a look that says she knows exactly how to play the game, and can play it better than you can. So you do challenge her.

“Does that time in the loo at The Flamingo Club not count?” you ask.

“No, it only counts if there is a real chance of somebody seeing you in the act, so washroom stalls don’t count,” she explains. “It was brilliant, though, Theo,” she adds and the two of you exchange knowing glances.

Draco visibly cringes and mutters under his breath, “This is why I hate inviting her to these things.” You elbow him gently, which does nothing but make him sound even more superior than usual when he tries to correct her, “By the way, I’m fairly certain the Hogwarts Express counts as a public place, so try again, Parkinson.”

“Hand jobs don’t count,” she replies, and because she can’t let an opportunity to lovingly humiliate Draco pass her by (which is why she’s your best friend), she adds, “Unless you managed to penetrate me and I didn’t feel it, which is a possibility, given your unfortunate anatomical shortcomings back then, that time on the train doesn’t count.”

Draco’s jaw twitches and he pierces both you and Pansy with a withering look. “Can we rescind her invitation to this party?”

You drape your arm over his shoulders and cuddle up next to him on the sofa in hopes that he’ll lighten up again.

Pansy goes around the coffee table with the bottle, pouring out a shot for each glass. And then it’s the moment of truth. All eyes fall upon Blaise, who shrugs nonchalantly before drinking his shot. None of you are surprised, playboy that he is. When everyone’s attention moves on to Daphne, she raises her brows and crosses her arms, and you are still not surprised. Millie bites her bottom lip and blushes, but doesn’t drink right away. When she does take a coy little sip, you all erupt into cheerfully scandalized exclamations. Graham waves his hand dismissively when it is his turn and looks a bit embarrassed when he doesn’t drink.

Pansy puts a hand on Graham’s shoulder and says, “Darling, we can change that later tonight, you know.” Everyone thinks she’s just teasing, but you wouldn’t put it past her if she followed through, nor would you judge her harshly. Honestly, this little group of friends has been so incestuous with each other over the years.

And when it’s your turn, you and Draco exchange meaningful smirks, reach for your shot glasses, and drink them down smugly as a synchronized team. The spectacle you’ve made of it causes your companions to hoot and holler as if it’s a game of Spin the Bottle in the Slytherin common room.

Oh, yes. You’ve definitely had your fair share of public sex. It goes beyond making love languorously on the beach at night beneath the stars, or frantic quickies in the dressing room of high-end menswear shops. You and Draco make quite the deviant pair.

 

~@~

 

You remember that September afternoon like it was yesterday.

Draco drags you to New York for fashion week and you pretended like it is the worst thing he could have put you through, even though you love this city like she’s the flashiest lady you’ve ever bedded, glittering with diamonds. Between your adoration for New York, Draco’s infatuation with fashion, and your love for each other, it is a veritable polyamorous relationship. You discover that if you act like you’d rather have your teeth pulled out than watch runway shows, Draco will take you sightseeing to make up for it.

It’s your second trip to the Metropolitan Museum. You hadn’t come anywhere close to seeing everything in the massive collection of art and artifacts the first time. You haven’t made much of a dent during this subsequent trip either. You have stumbled upon a part of the museum that sees very few visitors. Judging from the dust collected on the displays, you infer that even the staff neglects this section.

Within the American Wing of the museum, there is a mezzanine between floors that houses an odd collection of historical items that don’t quite belong anywhere else. You’ve only discovered the room because you were searching for a lift and found a staircase instead. Unbeknownst to you, the stairs service nothing but that collection and you find yourselves lost in a maze of tall glass cases trying to navigate your way to the second floor. In each case is shelf upon shelf upon shelf of everyday items dating back as far as the American Revolution – silver spoons, glass bottles, china tea sets, implements for smoking and writing. Even though you have a vested interest in the latter two activities, it is the most boring thing you’ve seen during your New York visit, and quite possibly, the most uninteresting thing you’ve seen in your life.

It is eerily quiet, very much like a library, with the towering display cases creating long channels. The narrow spaces between the rows of cases feel a bit claustrophobic, but also afford you and Draco quite a bit of privacy. It’s nice to escape the noisy, crowded halls of the museum, and you’re not in any rush to find your way out.

Draco is examining a case filled with silver belt buckles. They weren’t particularly ornate or interesting, but worth a glance, you suppose.

You stand behind him and rest your chin on his shoulder. You slip your arm in the space made by his bent elbow and point at the case. “You see that one over there? The one with the horse?”

“Which one with the horse? There are about seventeen buckles with horses in here,” Draco snorts.

You choose one at random and tap on the glass. “That one.” You turn your face to whisper into his ear and annunciate exaggeratedly, “I think it’s Dior.”

You are completely toying with him. It is the furthest thing from a French designer belt buckle.

It had been your game all week to randomly drop names of famous design houses in Draco’s ear when he least expected it, just to watch the great vein in his neck pulse a little harder, just to feel him shiver almost imperceptibly in your arms, just to make him stiffen a bit in his trousers.

Draco closes his eyes, bites his lip, and groans softly, “Mmm… You’re an arsehole, Theodore.”

You chuckle softly, smugly, and fold your arm around his waist. “Definitely Dior,” you purr.

“You insult the great name of Christian Dior by associating it with such an ordinary, utilitarian object,” says Draco. He doesn’t sound particularly indignant.

Your teeth graze the lobe of his ear as you hiss, your breath hot against his skin, “Fuck Dior.”

You could almost feel his knees buckle as his stance falters briefly. You marvel at how easy it is to make him unravel, how the words work like the _Imperius_ curse every time. You’re dizzy with the power you wield over him. You take the opportunity to pull him impossibly closer while pressing your body against his.

“How dare you take Dior’s name in vain,” he breathes out, sounding only somewhat scandalized, and lets his head tip back against your shoulder. When he presses into your lap you know he isn’t all that affronted.

He is like an indolent, needy kitten and you can’t help playing with him and spurring him on. You wonder how far he’d go because you know you’ll just keep pushing until something breaks. You possessively tighten the arm that’s wrapped around his waist and murmur irreverently, letting the words drip slowly from your mouth onto the side of his neck like malicious seduction, “Christian Dior can suck my cock.”

With that, you close what little distance there is between the two of you and the case and push Draco against the glass with the length of your body. The insistent press of your arousal heralds your own desires. You expect him to gasp indignantly at your assault on his personal space in a public setting, or at least reprimand you for being so vulgar in the same breath as the one used to utter his most revered designer.

But he doesn’t. At least, he doesn’t reprimand you the way you expect him to. He does, however let out a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a moan, and that sound does things to you. You want to hear more of it.

He whines sensually, keening like a desperate whore, if only just pretending for your mutual amusement, “And rob me of the pleasure?”

Then his voice turns positively sinister in all the ways that make your cock twitch inside your jeans. “I won’t share you, Theodore, not even with The Master.”

“ _The Master_ , hm?” you mock him, though playfully so, “When did you become Dior’s bitch-boy?”

He drawls without hesitation, “The moment he lavished my naked body with the impeccably tailored fruit of his collective brilliance.” The way he says it, with such carnal reverence and sheer lust, could almost make you jealous. But instead, it just makes you harder.

You lightly press the side of Draco’s face into the glass with a hand splayed over the opposite cheek. “I ought to lavish your pretty face with the seed of my brilliance,” you threaten lowly through teeth that then nip at the skin of his neck. “Remind you whom you truly belong to.”

It’s all talk for the most part and you both know it, but the false sense of isolation is giving you cause to put your money where your mouth is, or rather, putting your money where his mouth is. After all, you’d never let Draco call your bluff.

Of course he tries. “Right here, right now, Theodore?” he asks, jeering at you with the doubtful lilt of his voice. “Do you really fancy desecrating one of your beloved temples of the arts?”

“I fancy your smart mouth on my dick, Malfoy, so get on it,” you reply, more cocky than you really feel.

Because it’s fun to role-play like this and you wonder if you can get him to fold when the cards you’re holding are far from aces. You free him from the glass and take a step back, challenging him with your eyes and your crooked grin that says bring it.

And to your utter surprise, he brings it. He pauses briefly to glance over his shoulder at the deserted room before dropping to his knees. Your eyes widen in shock and your bluff is completely called – because, even as aroused as you are right now, you’re more inclined to duck into the nearest men’s room with him to take care of it. It just seems disrespectful, even for a deviant like you, to do such a thing in a place you regard as a church.

“Draco, are you insane?” you chuckle incredulously while nervously surveying your surroundings to ensure you are indeed alone. “We’re in the fucking Metropolitan Museum!” You keep your voice at an alarmed whisper, lest you draw attention to yourselves from anybody that happens to be nearby.

He just smirks up at you, looking all too pleased with himself as he makes quick work of the closures of your jeans and finds that you’re hard. Before you can form words of reason and caution with your mouth, his mouth is around your cock and he’s taking you down his throat with enough proficiency to make you swear beneath your breath in both dismay and veneration.

“Oh fuck…” The back of your head hits the glass case behind you. If there was a Hell for people who worship the arts like gods, then you’re going there.

The seal of Draco’s lips around your girth is as tight as his grip on your backside, and you know there is no escape, not that your body wants to go anywhere but deeper into his. The warm slide of his tongue almost makes you forget where you are. The room is so desolate and devoid of any sound, other than the soft, delightful, wet noises Draco makes, that you could believe that you really are alone.

And because it is otherwise so quiet, you hear the faint sound of mechanical motors to your right. Your head swiftly turns towards the noise and your eyes are immediately drawn to a red blinking light inside a little glass dome mounted nearby on the low ceiling.

“ _Shit_ , security camera,” you whisper in a strangled voice and squeeze his shoulder.

Draco’s eyes open and look up at you from behind a translucent fan of blond lashes, though he doesn’t bother pulling his mouth off your cock. You look down at him with apprehension and angle your head toward the direction of the camera, rather than point, as if doing so would somehow draw more attention to you – as if two blokes in a public museum partaking in oral sex isn’t conspicuous in its own right. His silver eyes follow the direction of your subtle gesture, still managing to remain firmly affixed to you. Then his eyes fall closed again, unconcerned, as he continues to slowly bob his head over your lap.

You heave a sigh of disbelief and exasperation. “Draco, we are being _watched_!”

He is undeterred in his task and simply lifts an arm in the direction of the security camera to give the unseen eyes a good old American middle-finger salute. You have to just laugh and fist your hands in your own hair and go with it. You can think of worse things than being banned from the Metropolitan Museum for life.

But really, you can’t think of anything other than the fact that Draco’s tongue is swirling around the head of your cock, relishing your precome, judging from the pleased little moans he’s making. The vibrations go right through your shaft and instantly make your balls draw up close to your body, priming themselves for your pending, foreseeable release.

You hadn’t realized that you’d given up vigilance in favor of letting your eyes flutter closed in bliss, until your eyes snap open upon the sudden loss of moist pressure around your arousal. Draco is standing up and you scramble to stuff yourself back into your jeans, assuming you’ve been caught. But he’s undoing his own trousers in a hurry and assaulting you with his mouth in other delightful ways. He is kissing you like it’s his purpose in life, stealing your breath away along with your apprehensions.

His lips separate from yours just long enough for Draco to whisper breathily, “Do you want to fuck me?”

His words spill hotly against the corner of your mouth before he takes your bottom lip between his teeth. It isn’t a question; it’s a challenge, and you are unable to do anything but rise to it when he’s got his hand shoved down your pants and is pulling deftly on your cock.

But you know Draco. He’s become more adventurous over the years, and that’s due in part to your encouragement, or provocation, depending on how one looks at it. But this? This is crazy by even your very low standards of what is acceptable behavior in public. You remember a time when Draco wouldn’t even kiss you in the presence of other eyes. So now you are calling his bluff.

“Maybe,” you reply noncommittally, nipping him in retaliation, letting your hand slip into the opening of his tailored trousers to teasingly palm what’s inside.

“Maybe?” he repeats, dubiously. “This is telling me otherwise.” With that, he twists his fingers around the circumference of your hardness and tugs the foreskin over your swollen head in a single, fluid motion and you moan softly.

Two can play at this game, and you love this man, but you know better than to trust him when the stakes of the game are high. “You wouldn’t really let me fuck you here,” you say with a quirked brow.

His smirk darkens and he gives you a low, closed-lipped chuckle. “If you can find me, you can fuck me.”

Then the bastard disapparates with a quiet pop, leaving you quite literally with your dick out. You hiss a frustrated vulgarity and stuff yourself back in your jeans for the second time, but with greater difficulty. You creep quietly through the maze of glass cases, hoping you can sneak up on him – you know he’ll just keep eluding you if he can hear you coming. After fruitlessly searching several rows and getting more hopelessly lost within the matrix of artifacts, you hear Draco calling out from another part of the room.

“I’m getting bored, Theodore,” he drawls.

You jog around the corner and search frantically because you won’t let him beat you at bloody hide-and-go-seek.

You hear his voice again from closer this time. He heaves a lofty, dramatic sigh. “I guess you don’t want to fuck me. I’ll have to take care of myself.”

You apparate to the next row over and find him vaguely inspecting a display of antique pistols. You snatch up his wrist so he can’t disapparate without you. “Got you.”

“Took you long enough,” he chides.

You tug him deeper down the row. Sets of floor-to-ceiling cases, filled with rifles of marginally historical value, flank you on both sides. This particular pair of cases stops flush at the wall, creating a narrow, dead end corridor. If he’s serious about engaging in clandestine activities, Draco picked a good location. The appropriateness of being amidst long things that shoot is not lost on you.

When you reach the end, you push him against the wall face first and pin his arm behind his back. His cream colored sport jacket is fitted and has very little stretch, so the motion is likely putting stress on the seams. You only know this because you’ve been schooled all week about the finer details of menswear.

“Rip this jacket, and I’ll kill you,” Draco warns without any real severity, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “It’s vintage Burberry Prorsum and I’d have to get the entire lining replaced to repair it.”

You divest him of said jacket and toss it on the floor irreverently. His eyes follow it to the carpet, then back up to you with an arched eyebrow. “Do you have a death wish, Theodore?”

You press your body against his and mutter against the back of his neck as you reach around and open his trousers. “Would you rather I fuck you in that jacket and risk staining it?”

He answers you with a sardonic question. “Are we really doing this, then?”

“You said,” you begin melodically, “if I could find you, I could fuck you.” You practically sing the words because this is a game, after all. You tug down his trousers and pants in one sharp motion to show him how invested you are.

“In front of the eyes in the sky?” he asks dubiously, as if he still thinks you’re bluffing.

You pull your wand from the inside pocket of your denim jacket and hit the closest security camera with a fogging spell. “That should do it. But really, nothing is hidden from the eyes of the gods.”

“The gods are perverts,” he purrs and cranes his head back to swallow your open-mouthed kiss whole.

And then you’re doing it – you’re really doing it – you’re performing sacrilege inside a holy sanctum in the most profane way. You’re tonguing your lover’s asshole in the same building that has the esteem of displaying Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_. You can’t decide if this fact is romantic or terribly fucked up.

You’ve set up a little detection charm that will give you fair warning before threat of discovery, but that doesn’t help you gauge how much time you’ll have before you pull up your trousers and pretend that you’re both utterly fascinated with guns manufactured in the 1890’s. Your heart is beating as fast as Draco is beating off while you both frantically race through preparatory foreplay. He’s only barely pliable by the time you take him firmly by the hip and guide your slicked cock into him with more difficulty than you’re used to. He’s as tight as the day you took his virginity and you wonder if it is due to Draco’s heightened sense of caution, or because you didn’t prep him enough. It is likely a combination of both and you’re slightly wary.

But you’re fucking him anyway because this picture of Draco Malfoy, with his legs spread, trousers around his knees, hand bracing himself on the wall, dress shirt crumpled and hiked up to his waist, hair a ruffled mess, is the most obscenely decadent portrait in the museum and you could probably come hands-free just by staring at him long enough. Part of you wants to take out that little camera you’ve been toting around the world to snap a dirty photo – face it, you might never see Draco this wanton and disheveled ever again, and you want evidence for your own peace of mind. You also want to keep it for your wank bank, if we’re being honest. You forego the photo because you don’t have the time or the patience for it. Besides, you know Draco would murder you and your camera.

It’s a rushed affair – a bit longer than a quickie, but nothing like the leisurely way you and Draco are accustomed to making love, because this isn’t really about love. You do love each other, and you tell each other with ragged whispers as you fuck like rabbits, but it’s all about the game. Though now you’re playing against the clock rather than against each other.

You’re sweating within your clothes and they stick to your moist skin. It’s unusual for either of you to be wearing so much when getting this intimate. He’s usually devoid of his beloved designer menswear when you take him, though you sometimes make him keep on his open dress shirt and unknotted tie because he just looks so delicious that way when he’s splayed out on the bed and gazing up at you with silver eyes. The confining space and the excess of fabric weighing on you is beginning to feel a bit suffocating. So you hazard to shed a layer. Your problem is, once you start taking things off, you can never seem to stop until you’re naked, and it would be unwise to start that downward spiral towards getting arrested for public indecency.

But you’re hardly wise in your twenties. Your jacket joins Draco’s on the floor and your t-shirt gets halfway off your body when the little warning spell goes off, alerting you to somebody approaching. You swear, wrench Draco’s hand off his cock, and hold it in yours. You disapparate in a panic, aiming for your room at the Plaza. It was foolish of you to try to rashly apparate to a place you aren’t completely familiar with in a foreign city. And as Fate would have it, you are punished for your folly when you miss the Plaza by an entire city block and wind up in Central Park. The sudden absence of a wall leaves you both on the ground. Luck, however, is still on your side because you’re in the woods with your pants down and your cock inside Draco Malfoy, and thankfully not on the Great Lawn. Now you can say you’ve fucked in two public places in the city. A lone jogger whizzes by you on a nearby path and doesn’t bat an eye. Such is New York.

“What the fuck, Theodore!” Draco hisses and rolls over, throwing you off him in the process.

You both scramble to hike your trousers back up and put everything in its proper place.  
“I panicked,” you say and bite your lip shamefully. “I didn’t mean to go to the park, though.”

“I don’t bloody care that we’re in the park; you left my Burberry jacket in the museum!” he scolds you.

Your hand goes over your mouth as you gasp in horror, not because of lost clothing, but because your wand is in that pile of jackets you’d left behind on the floor of the museum. You’ve done some stupid things in your young life, and this is one of the daftest of them.

When you go to retrieve your orphaned items, you lose your shit. And that’s because your shit is lost – the jackets aren’t where you’d left them. Draco is entirely displeased and lets you know it every five seconds. You go to the coat check room where the lost-and-found is located. When you tell the woman behind the counter what you’re looking for, she smiles at you nervously.

“Yes, I believe somebody turned those things in about an hour ago. Wait right here,” she says. She turns around, walks away from the counter, and mumbles into a walkie-talkie. She glances back at you and calls out, “Somebody is bringing them over from the other coat check. Wait there please.”

You find her insistence upon you waiting to be rather odd, not because you have to wait, but because she keeps repeating it. It’s not like you’d just wander off without your things. Instead of somebody brining you your jackets, you see a security officer approaching, flanked by two policemen, who also insists that you stay where you are, although in a considerably more gruff tone.

“Fuck! Those damn security cameras!” you whisper harshly to Draco and point out the uniformed gentlemen walking up to you.

 

~@~

 

“I’ve never been arrested by the muggle police,” Graham confesses proudly.

You and Draco look at each other shrewdly and drink that whiskey _all_ the way down.


End file.
